Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter
a hard-ass. Too bad. He wasn’t acting. People could take him or leave him. He didn’t care about that, either.
“How about we split the difference and meet at ten thirty?” Once again she offered him a fine-boned hand. “Deal?”
This time, ignoring her hand proved more difficult. Her nails were square-tipped, painted soft pink and glittered in the moonlight. A surprise. As tough—and sexy—as she was, he expected bloodred or jet-black.
A series of calluses marred the tips of her fingers, and on her wrist was a small but elaborate tattoo. An antique lock without a key, surrounded by emerald ivy, as if her arm had a hidden doorway to paradise.
His wayward gaze traveled over the rest of her, unbidden, as if drawn by an irresistible force. Her hourglass figure sizzled with carnality, and he suspected everyone who’d ever looked at her imagined her stripped naked and spread over a bed. Or any flat surface, really.
He certainly had, and he hated himself for it. Desire Ryanne Wade? No. Hell, no. The twenty-five-year-old single woman was the bane of his existence: a bar owner who threatened his control. But he’d told her the truth. His friends loved her. She was close to Dorothea Mathis, who was engaged to one of his buds, Daniel Porter. She was also close to Lyndie Scott, who was desired by Brock Hudson, Jude’s only other bud.
That made Ryanne Wade a double whammy.
At the end of the day, Jude would do anything for Daniel and Brock, who had served with him overseas, saving his hide more times than he could count. Which was why he’d added their names to the massive tattoo on his chest.
They, along with a rare few others, were the only people who mattered to him.
Jude forced his gaze to lift at last, meeting rich brown eyes so often filled with joy he could no longer understand. Those eyes were framed by curling dark lashes somehow sweet and sultry at once. Long raven hair surrounded a face that belonged in a movie. She had smoky eyes, high cheekbones, a pert nose and pouty red lips.
Beauty, brains and bravery. The whole package.
“Well?” she demanded. “Judging by your silence, I can only guess you’re blown away by my brilliance.”
“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. and not a minute later,” he croaked. Then he backed away, and motioned for her to get her ass inside. Any time she brought her “sassy tone” into a conversation, he had only one option: retreat. That tone twisted him up, and sometimes even hollowed him out.
She stood in place for a long while, different emotions sweeping over her exquisite features. Anger, irritation, frustration, but finally resolve. Decided his services were worth the hassle, after all?
When she trudged into the bar, he followed close on her heels. As he moved, phantom pains shot through the calf he no longer possessed. He should go home, remove his prosthesis and relax for the first time in...never mind. He didn’t know how to relax. He should work, the best distraction from his toxic thoughts.
Ryanne maneuvered through the crowds, being sure to give her hips an extra sway. Witch. Whistles preceded her, and catcalls trailed her.
Jude cursed the circumstances that had brought him here. Ignore her. Ignore everyone. He had work to do, and a very short time to do it.
The Dushku motto: Don’t Bend, Break.
As soon as the family had moved into Blueberry Hill, only minutes from Jude’s home in Strawberry Valley, he’d done background checks on every member. His motto? Can’t Be Too Careful.
Ryanne was in serious danger. Years ago, Dushku moved to a small town in Texas. He offered to buy out every bar, restaurant and liquor store in the area. Soon after, anyone who’d refused to sell suffered a tragic fate. Some were arrested for a crime they swore they’d never committed while others were injured in some kind of accident.
Dushku was never charged.
On edge, Jude counted the number of cameras and lights he would need, and tested the reliability of every lock. Something he’d done several times before, as he’d waited for Brock to finish drinking and say the magic words: take me home. He repeated the process, checking and double-checking his findings. His analysis remained the same. Anyone with a tire iron and a couple minutes to spare could break in without difficulty.
How had Ryanne survived so long?
His gaze sought the beautiful brunette unbidden. She’d settled behind the bar, her attention locked on Daniel and Brock.
Daniel had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryanne’s. His eyes were light brown and there was a slight bump in the center of his nose. That nose had suffered one too many breaks.
Overall, he looked like the soldier he was: rough, tough and solid as a rock.
On the other hand, Brock looked rougher and tougher with multiple piercings and arms sleeved in tatts. His jet-black hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thick five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, a complete contrast to the pale green eyes that often reflected skepticism, disdain and warped cheerfulness.
Brock had grown up filthy rich, but as the old saying went, money hadn’t bought him happiness. Just like a lack of money hadn’t been the source of Jude’s problems. Wealth had nothing to do with emotion. Both he and Brock had parents who never should have had children.
Daniel hadn’t been rich or poor, but he’d had the kind of childhood most people only dreamed about. He’d been born and bred in Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, adored by his parents, cherished for the boy he’d been as well as the man he would become.
He was the reason Jude and Brock had moved to the speck-on-the-map small town. Any time their military unit had gotten stuck in a shit storm, waiting for escape or death—whichever came first—Daniel had spun fairy tales.
Dude. Check it. Strawberry-scented air.
All the peace of a beach without sand in your ass-crack.
Magazine perfect. If there’s heaven on earth, it’s Strawberry Valley.
Unwilling to go back to Georgia, where Jude had been stationed after joining the army, and equally unwilling to return to Texas, where he’d grown up—where beloved and hated memories waited to torment him—he’d moved to Oklahoma with his friends.
Ryanne’s eyes flashed with merriment, and Jude almost smiled. Had anyone ever loved life with such abandon?
Part of him hated her for that abandon.
Damn it! When had his focus slid back to her?
Daniel spotted him and waved him over. “There you are.”
Ryanne smiled with feline satisfaction, as if she’d discovered a particularly juicy secret.
A muscle clenched low in Jude’s gut.
Though he would rather avoid the bar owner until he’d calmed from whatever she continued to do to his emotions, he closed the distance between them.
The scent of strawberries and cream filled his nose, courtesy of Ryanne. Every time he neared her, he was reminded of his favorite dessert, strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered. When his mouth watered, his teeth gnashed, because a wave of crackling heat always followed, as if—
No. I do not want her.
Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Ryanne said you’d taken off.”
“Ryanne isn’t always aware of her surroundings,” he replied, flicking her a cool glance. “She’s usually too busy flirting with customers.”
She puckered those red, red lips and flipped her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder. “If I can convince just one more man to buy another penny beer, I might be able to afford that solid gold bi-deet I’ve been wanting. Fingers crossed!”
Brock snorted at her—purposeful?—mispronunciation of bidet. “What are you doing here, anyway, my man?” he asked Jude. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”